Not My Life
by RockReddCardinal
Summary: Martin has a very, very bad day. He hates his life. T rating for safety.
1. Bringing the Rain

A chorus of whoops and cheering rose into the attic from the common room of the house. Groggily, Martin opened his eyes. He blurrily saw his ginger curls stretching lazily across the edge of the pillow he was snuggled up against. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he grumbled something unger his breath about the racket from downstairs. And then it hit him. The game was on at six. So was his SEP exam. Martin sat bolt upright, his face beginning to flush as he realized he had overslept. He shot out of the bed, snatching up his uniform clothes and yanking off his civvies. Jumping awkwardly into one pant leg and then another, he fumbled with the buttons of his wrinkled white shirt. The tie, which he draped over his neck, could wait until a stoplight or something. Carolyn's voice in his head chided his forgetfulness. He winced and shoved his freckled feet into his dress shoes. Frantically he dashed out of the room and hopped down the stairs. The students didn't even look up from their game as Martin raced out the door, slamming it behind him.

He reached his van, stored in a parking lot two blocks down or so, and paused for a breath before slinging open the door and jumping in. Groping around in his pocket produced no set of keys as it usually did. He searched the other pockets, including the one on his shirt, but his keyes weren't there. Swearing to himself, Martin searched the front seat for the keys. Nothing. He crawled into the back of the van and shuffled everything around. No keys. Not under the seats, either. He got out of his van and took a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair tensely. Mentally mapping his room, he thought of at least five places that he could have left them. Taking in a deep breath, he ran back to the house. His ankles ached slightly as he pounded up the stairs to his room. He dove into a pile of clothes and began to dig, listening for the tell-tale jingle. Nothing. Straightening up, his head made a loud crack against the desk. Martin groaned and crumpled to the floor, rubbing his head frustratedly. He ducked out from under the desk and searched the top of it. Nothing there either. Finally, he frisked his bed and found his van keys under his pillow. Cursing his stupidity, he headed downstairs again, keys in hand. It wasn't until he was half way down the first block that it started to rain.

Ducking down and clutching his hat close to his chest, Martin began to run faster. The sound of lightening splitting the sky open made him jump. His legs burned but he pressed them to keep going, his van now in sight. One heavy step made contact with a rather large puddle, and he was instantly soaked to the knees with muddy water. His shoes were full of water as well, but he was finally at his van. He grabbed the keys out of his pocket and jumped in, slamming the door to the van hard as if it were a "take-that" to the pouring rain. A low growl was forming in his throat as he turned the keys and forced the van to move. It creaked and groaned but reluctantly started. Martin breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He steered the van onto the road, painfully aware that by now, he was more than late; he was wet and dirty, rather unprofessional. But better than miss it completely, he thought.

Dripping with rain and shivering frailly, Martin burst into the room. Carolyn turned to glare at him, and Arthur waved enthusiastically.

"You missed the-"

"I know!" Martin snapped back, "I missed the whole bloody thing, right? I'm a failure."

"Just the first part. You can start the written exam with us and do the oral exam later," Carolyn stated plainly.

He collapsed into a metal folding chair next to Douglas and rolled back his sleeves as to not wet the exam paper. He picked up a pencil and tried to write his name at the top of the form. His hands, and whole body for that matter, shook until "Captain Martin Crieff" turned into "Capta" with a scribble following it and something that might have been an "M" in the middle. At least it was multiple choice. He circled the answers with big, unsteady loops, his frozen fingers unwilling to cooperate to hold the pencil still. When the final mark was made, the red-head dropped the pencil on the table and clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to restore feeling to his fingers. The exam administrator motioned for him to get up upon noticing he had finished, and lead him off to re-take what he had missed.

_Exams are stupid_, Martin mused as he stretched his legs and got ready to leave the testing centre. It was noontime now, and his stomach growled softly. Beyond the glass doors the sky was in turmoil, rain coming down so hard it had begun to rain almost _horizontally_. He grimaced as he imagined running back to his van, raindrops peppering his skin like little bullets. If it weren't such a day as it was, he would have gone straight back to the shared house and sat in his little room in the attic, reading manuals and watching the stormclouds. However, life never played out like that for Martin Crieff. He had to go back to the house all right, just to change into some dry clothes and head straight back out to do a few jobs before going out to buy food. He always did that on a Wednesday, as that was when the sales were best and he could perhaps stretch his small budget a little further. If he could help it, he would just stay inside the testing centre until the rain passed. But there was no choice for him. His first job of the day was scheduled in half-an-hour, and being late always made the job worse. The rain, infinitely more so. So out he went, disregarding the chill that bit into his skin.


	2. Boiling Point

Up the stairs he bounded, shouting an apology for dripping water in the house as he went. When he entered his attic, he was in for quite a shock. The window above his bed, it seems, had broken from a tree limb that had fallen because of the strong winds. Gaping at it for a moment, Martin racked his brain for an idea. He cleared off his desk, putting his belongings carefully in the far corner of the room. The desk itself he tipped up and placed on top of the bed, bracing it against the window with the chair. Satisfied that the rain would no longer continue to cause damage, he surveyed what it already did. The floorboards were warped and crooked from the water causing them to swell. His clothes were mostly saturated, with the exception of what was left in his wardrobe. Checking his mobile, Martin realized that he was soon to be very much late. He quickly slipped off his soaked clothes and tossed them in the small shower he was very glad to have handy. Tugging on a slightly damp pullover and jeans, he headed back out to the van. There was work to be done.

Muscles aching, burning, and threatening to give out, Martin leaned heavily against the van. His eyes stung, tears ready to pour out down his face. He figured he might as well cry, as the rain and hail would cover him even if anyone was around. This had been a very, very bad day. But it was, in Martin's mind, a very, very good summary of his life: Rotten. Here he was, on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere in a storm, locked out of his van (which, incedentally, had run out of petrol). His stomach growled loudly and he punched it, telling his body to shut up. He hadn't eaten still, and it was getting dark (or darker, as the storm had only made nightfall look more menacing). The assault by harsh, cold wind, complete with ice and rain, made his face sting and cheeks grow bright red. Miles from the nearest city, or even petrol station, he knew he was out of luck. He had been sitting cold and drenched to the bone for what felt like an eternity when he saw headlights. Hurrying to the side of the road, he waved frantically at the vehicle. No luck. They hadn't seen him, or didn't care. Judging by his appearance, Martin figured they didn't care. Another vehicle came and went with the same results. And another. Then nothing. He walked back to his van, kicking angrily at the pavement. Crashing back against the van, he ran his hand through his wet ginger hair. Hot tears were beginning to spill over onto his frozen cheeks, the temperatures painfully reacting with each other. His brain began to form the most depressing thoughts and ideas, each more desparate than the last. He thought of his ruined room, his drenched clothes, his shoddy van with the keys and his mobile locked inside, his dreadfully empty stomach. And he came to a conclusion, about the situation, about his life. Then he got an idea.

Martin never liked gambling, but he was just depressed enough to try. Standing in the middle of the road, he figured he had two possible outcomes. The next car that came along could either see him and be forced to stop and help him, which would be grand, or not see him and hit and hopefully kill him, which at this point was looking like a viable option to him. He didn't care which he got. Regardless, he would be out of the situation he was in and that was all he cared about. By now he was no longer crying. He'd thought about this kind of thing many times before. An end was in sight. He was now a red faced, poorly dressed, stick thin man playing Russian Roulette with cars on a fast highway. He saw a pair of headlights approaching in the distance. Shuffling into the lane where the vehicle was driving, he closed his eyes and turned his head upward, toward the sky. He had to force himself to keep his head up, not wanting to ruin the surprise. Martin never liked surprises. As the vehicle came closer and closer, the headlights burning his closed eyes, he swallowed hard and took one last deep breath and held it.


	3. Existence

Hearing the screeching of brakes, Martin fell to his knees on the wet road in shock. He opened his eyes to find himself inches from the front license plate of a Lexus. Releasing the held breath and taking another gasping one in, his eyes began to well up. He was alive, strangely. He hadn't much planned for that, but he had definitely not planned to see what he saw step out of the car.

For a quick instant he met eyes with Douglas, then turned away, letting out a small cry of chagrin. The tears began to flow again and his freckled cheeks burned not with cold, but sheer embarrassment. The absolute last person he needed to see now. He could only imagine the chiding snide remarks that would follow him for months to come, the joking and teasing that would never end. Martin wished he could just curl up and die, and repeated that wish over and over again as he heard the car door slam and footsteps urgently heading in his direction. Forget being alive. His life was over.

"M-Martin? Is that- What the bloody hell are you doing out here, Martin?" The usual sarcastic, dark-honey voice had given way to a shaky, concerned one.

Martin buried his face in his hands and began to shake as tears forced their way out. He was at the lowest of the low right now. Nothing could make it worse. He let himself begin to cry, body wracked with shivering sobs.

"Martin! You could have been killed! What's wrong with you?"

He yielded to the strong, warm hand that pulled his arms away from their protection of his tear-stained face and trembling, weak body. His eyes widened as he looked back up at Douglas. There was a sudden moment of connection, and the frustrated countenance Martin was faced by turned to one soft, worried, and even a bit frightened. Letting go of Martin's hand for only a second, Douglas stripped off his coat and draped it over the ginger's shaking shoulders. He wordlessly grabbed the smaller man by his upper arm and pulled him to his feet. Martin felt his legs go weak, and a firm hand on his back guided him to the passenger seat of the car. He collapsed onto it, eyes shut and shivering lessening. A faint warm pressure extended across his chest momentarily, and he heard the click of a seat-belt clip. The door next to him shut, then the door opposite him. Another click, and then the car began to move. Martin didn't move except to stretch out one arm to cover his reddened eyes and the other to pull the warm coat around him a little tighter. He didn't speak, didn't ask where they were going or explain anything. The feeling began to return to his cold, wet fingers as a burning, but it meant they were there and alive. For the first time in a while, he felt safe.

The car stopped outside a large house, Douglas's no doubt. Martin allowed himself to be lead inside and placed on a couch with a cup of hot tea. He kept his eyes down, dreading the inevitable questions he'd have to answer. He stared at his bare feet, stripped of the frigid shoes, that poked out from the bottom of the oversized jeans he had been given while his clothes were drying, and tightened his grip on the thick towel that hung on his bare neck. Aside from the feeling one gets of drowning in clothes borrowed from someone any bit bigger that one's self, Martin was somewhat content, safe and warm at the least. But the instant he heard someone sit down on the chair opposite him, a lump formed in his throat and he bit his lip nervously.

"Martin, what's wrong?" Douglas asked, staring inquisitively.

"N-nothing," Martin choked, feeling the hot gaze on him.

"Not nothing," Douglas countered, his voice a little more stern now, "People don't stand in the middle of the road at night in the rain for _nothing_. Something has to be wrong."

Martin bit his lip harder, trying to hold back more crying. A tear splattered against the shaking hand he held the tea cup in, and another fell on his thigh, leaving a watermark on the pale jeans.

"Go on," the smooth voice urged, "Why did you do that?"

Before he could stop himself, Martin let out a low cry and began to wail, covering his eyes with his unoccupied hand as if it were to make him invisible from his first officer.

"I-I-I had a very bad day," he spluttered, "I had a really rotten day and I don't know."

"That's not it," rang the knowing response.

"A bad life," Martin cried, "It's been just bad, okay?"

There was a long pause, and he sensed Douglas wasn't going to relent. Beginning slowly and meekly, he explained himself. Douglas watched intently, expression unchanging.

"But, I-" Martin interjected at the end, "I don't think you need to concern yourself with _me_."

"I think I do."

The red-head looked up questioningly.

" First, you don't take care of yourself. I don't need to know anything about today to decide that. Second, you tried to _kill_ yourself tonight. I don't care what reasons you give me for that. That's _not_ good and _not_ normal. Third, I saw you while you were changing..."

Martin's glance shot downward, trying to hide his reddening face.

"And I'm not sure what's worse to have seen, your ribs," Douglas paused as Martin instinctively felt his sides, "or your _bruises_."

They both stuck hard in Douglas's mind. The too-thin frame with every bone hauntingly very visible was unnerving, but those bruises... Dark purple fresh ones, fading yellow and blue ones, and _scars_. Those were obviously old, and he didn't dare bring them up. But the sight was indeed disturbing, even for the ex-medical student.

"I'm just going to say, Martin, that anytime you need some help, just ask."

Martin rolled those words around in his head. No one had ever offered him _help_ before.

"Not a trick? No catch, no cruel joke?"

"Not one bit."

He usually never trusted Douglas, but something about the tone of his voice mad Martin relax and truly believe him. They sat in silence. Martin got up from the couch. He moved slowly and stiffly, his face turning red, until he was facing Douglas.

"I-I-I-" he stammered, his body and mouth moving without his consent.

The taller man eyed him suspiciously, raising an eyebrow in question. Martin's eye's began to fill with tears again, and he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Douglas's neck, hugging him tightly. He didn't let go, partly out of fear. What did he just do? A sudden sick feeling brewed in his stomach. Then he felt arms around his torso, a return hug. His nerves were calmed, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

"T-thank you," he managed, smiling warmly.

Douglas let go and ruffled Martin's gingery curls.

"Very welcome," he replied, "Now it's awful late and if I remember correctly, you have no suitable place to stay. And if _you_ remember correctly, I have a guest bedroom and an offer out for whatever you need. I suggest that you put that to use, in fact, I insist."

Martin nodded in agreement, and his stomach loudly growled. He hadn't eaten yet today, and it had just come back into his mind. Douglas chuckled.

"Looks like we just have swing by the kitchen first. Anything you want, I'll make it."

Martin was still baffled at Douglas's displays of care, but wouldn't disagree with that kind of offer. He bounded off into the kitchen after Douglas. His bad day was by now, entirely out of his mind.


End file.
